Heartless (not)
by I'm Nova
Summary: Sherlock's heart is far from normal...and it refuses to follow expectations even for its category. A season 3 rewrite, among other things. Another fill for Let's Write Sherlock challenge 11, this one a magical realism-type.


_Disclaimer: nothing is mine. Conan Doyle and BBC share all the rights, and I have to credit Once Upon a Time for being inspirational. Sorry about the tenses probable mess. This is unbetaed and English is not my first language. Nonetheless, enjoy!_

Heartless (not)

Sherlock Holmes can lie brazenly and perfectly to further his aims. But he doesn't like to (or he would have been an actor...or maybe a swindler). If the Work is his spouse, Truth is their beloved firstborn. He presents it proudly anytime he can, even if more often than not they're not well received. (Which is what makes John so special – he never minds truth.) But there is one truth about himself that Sherlock loves spreading, simply because it's so delightfully ironic that nobody ever imagines how literal he's being. Which one, you ask? He's heartless.

It's...a genetical condition. Yep, that definition works. Both Mycroft and he take from their father in that respect. To be honest, Dad shouldn't even be with them at all – but you don't fight true love. At least it's what the man always repeats. And even if an uninformed stranger would find them utterly mismatched, there is no doubt in the Holmes boys that what their parents have is indeed True Love, with capitals. But we're getting sidetracked here. The point is, Dad isn't exactly human. You'd never guess, meeting him. He seems so very ordinary that it's painful to watch.

Sherlock will always be grateful to his old man, for being whatever he is and having made them special in turn. Being normal sounds not only highly messy, but infinitely painful, and the detective is relieved to have been spared that. Instead, his heart can easily and painlessly be removed from his chest. It will continue beating and keeping him alive even with miles and miles between them. He's not sure that he can't be killed unless someone destroys it. He's never tried willingly and consciously to kill himself (no matter what Mycroft says). Not having a heart inside his chest is so comfortable, even if he's always a bit cold.

Sherlock didn't know from the start, of course. He was only aware that mummy kept dad's heart for safekeeping every time he had to go on an extended trip. And then suddenly (it feels like it) Sherlock was nine and Redbeard had to be put down and it just _hurt_. So much.

Mycroft had decided to go without his heart the year before, leaving it permanently in a safe deposit box he kept in his room at home. Sherlock hadn't liked much at the time how his brother had changed (he wasn't fun anymore) and had made a study of lock picking to be able to stare at Mycroft's pulsing heart as long as he wished.

But then – he was just crying (it seemed like he'd never stop) and his big brother had come into his room.

"Can I see?" he had asked, and when Sherlock had shrugged, he had – so very gently – taken his little brother's heart out.

A thin web of spidery cracks ran along the poor thing. Sherlock had gasped at the sight.

Mycroft had clicked his tongue. "That's the danger with leaving a heart inside one's chest. It's all too easy to get it broken," he had declared professorially.

"Yours is intact," Sherlock had remarked.

Mycroft had passed over how his little brother would know that, replying instead, "Of course. Because I'm smart, and I recognize the need for prevention. I really have to advise you to take it out permanently and keep it safe before it gets any worse than that, Sherlock."

"Can we put it in a treasure chest?" he had asked, hopeful.

"I don't see why not," Mycroft had conceded. "Let's find one."

Dad had looked a bit sad, but he hadn't protested when they had solemnly put his heart in a jewelry box mummy didn't use and then – with proper treasure procedure – buried it next to Redbeard. It was fitting, Sherlock thought.

Really, he was lucky to have heeded his brother's suggestion that day. Otherwise all the abuse people had gleefully hurled at him for decades would have probably broken him. Instead he was impervious against it all, only making his enemies frustrated over their inability to hurt him.

Things had changed since John, but for the longest time the sleuth persuaded himself it was all self-delusion.

Yes, sometimes his friend's praise made his chest uncharacteristically and unreasonably warm, like it hadn't been since he was a child.

If he indulged too long thinking about John when in his mind palace, sporadically he got a quick, painful pang that he had never felt. It resembled something that he hadn't experienced since he was an awkward teenager with growing pains.

And yes, at the pool for a moment of anguished doubt he'd have sworn that his empty chest was filled with a ton of lead. When he had proclaimed his heartlessness to Moriarty (who didn't _know_, did he?) he was half reassuring himself too.

Each and every time, though, he would afterward be back to normal – more or less. So maybe he was coming down with something, but as long as the Work wasn't impeded nothing else mattered.

And then he was on a rooftop and he could have sworn that he was no different from any other man. His own pounding heartbeat was suddenly the only thing he could hear. It had not happened in decades.

After that came the Hiatus, and if he missed John more ferociously than any man without a heart had any right to, he didn't dwell on it. He tricked (comforted) himself with his mind-palace flatmate, until his own thoughts were continuously accompanied by a running commentary in John's voice, and it helped. It tided him over the things he had to do, and the things he was too weak and stupid not to suffer.

Then finally, finally Mycroft was bringing him _home_. His brother looked strangely at him. Almost alarmed. When they were alone, he had (without a by-your-leave this time) opened his little brother's chest and taken out a heart which shouldn't have been there. "What is that, Sherlock?" he asked, frowning.

"No idea. John must have put it in there," he answered, because it was the only thing of which he was sure. This was all John's fault. And he'd reiterated it to Mycroft, when the git had sneered about how normal John was. It didn't matter anyway. John would take responsibility for it. He was that kind of man.

And John would have, the detective was sure – if only Sherlock had asked. But John was half of John-and-Mary now. And Sherlock – selfish brat that he's always been – had learned to prioritize John over himself. He shrugs off his concerned parents (his heart is not buried at home anymore, only fine red dust in the treasure chest and mummy – just like him – doesn't like not understanding).

He considers taking his heart out again, but it would be an exercise in futility. John is still around (if less than before) and he would just make his heart come back again. He doesn't understand any of this, but he's sure of it. So he holds onto it, even if it hurts. He doesn't even take it out to have a look at it. He knows that much deeper cracks will be there this time – it smarts too much not to – but he's working to see John_ happy_ and that's worth all the agony in the world. The marriage breaks his heart into tiny fragments. Surely it has; he can feel the splinters raking against his ribcage. But this doesn't kill him. It's mildly surprising.

When John finds him in a drug den, months later, the good doctor is equal parts enraged and disappointed. He fibs, saying half of a truth – Magnussen_ will_ like this, and it will benefit the case – because he can't confess. Admitting that he has been using opiates in an effort to manage a literally broken heart would require more explanations that he's willing to give at the moment. Not to mention that John would probably be sad about hurting him. He doesn't wish for John to ever be sad. Especially not on his account _(not again)_ and not for something John can't help.

He tries to concentrate on the case, but he keeps getting distracted. By John's absence, John's presence (when he's so blessed), the relentless pangs in his chest, even his surprise that a smart woman like Janine cannot see that he's going through the motions and has not a corner of his heart free for her to claim. He thought that his acting prowess was linked to his heartlessness, but perhaps it's a natural talent.

He's so very scatterbrained that he misjudges Mary awfully. Mary Mary, quite contrary to expectations, shoots him in the heart. And if he weren't busy dying, he'd laugh at her target choice. She can't really hurt it any worse than she's routinely been doing just by existing. It's fine, though. Give the poor battered thing a rest. Can't be so bad. But this is not about him. Nothing is about him anymore. John is not safe yet. Sherlock is so lucky to be special. No other heart restarts because _feelings_, he knows that. If he weren't his dad's son, he'd be dead and gone (a worried ghost, at most), and then what would happen to John?

Mary is equal parts surprised, worried and just plainly miffed over her failure to kill him, naturally. She's clearly not used to it. Sherlock refuses to be cowed into silence. John gets angrier the later he is informed of things, and surely he has a right to know to whom he's married. But the detective is very careful not to oppose her. John must absolutely not feel forced to pick a side. Sherlock has worries enough. He won't be able to take it if John should (logically) stand by her and forsake him as a consequence. The mere prospect of it – and the stress of this balancing act – is enough to damage his over-strained heart further.

He should get shot more often. It might be that he needs a doctor, it might be how uncomfortable John feels when being lied to (Mary should have known; if she came clean, she would have discovered that John is amazingly accepting), but John is by his side the following months. It heals him. His chest is pleasantly warm, now, and he can literally feel his shattered heart knitting together. Finally comes the day when he takes it out to check, not afraid anymore that if he did a jigsaw of sharp fragments would have slipped between his fingers.

It's not perfect (nothing like Mycroft's) but it's in surprisingly good condition, all things considered. It makes sense, though. This is the heart John birthed, so of course it thrives when he's allowed near his friend. They're almost back to old times, which is all Sherlock could possibly want. (_Lie_. But whatever mad dreams he's concocted, he won't linger on them and stain the current heavenly condition. He's not_ that_ stupid.)

They even have a case (Mary's case), even if for once Sherlock is not anxious to solve it. He'll take John's sound medical advice and postpone any strenuous activity for a day yet. Or two. Facing Magnussen requires considerable strength, physical and mental, so drawing this out is sensible. If he basks in John's presence in the meantime, no one can fault him, surely.

But nothing can be indefinitely delayed. That kind of sword of Damocles must fall sometimes. The best Sherlock can do is to ensure that if a blow falls he'll be the one to receive it. He hoped for a much better resolution, but he won't complain about his lot. A shot is fired (really no other way) and the worse of it is John's shocked look. Sometimes, Sherlock has no tricks up his sleeve. The detective would like to tell him that the dead body was the least of their worries (much less _Mycroft_), but he doesn't. Luckily so, because it would be a terrible slip of tongue. There is no 'their' worries anymore. There's John, who will now be free of worries. (He should be, or what was the point of this?) As for Sherlock, his only current fear is, how is he supposed to survive without John once again?

When a disappointed Mycroft (not that such is new – it's almost his default attitude) informs him of his sentence, Sherlock doesn't comment on that.

Instead, he replies, "You have to let me see John one last time._ In private_." "I don't_ have to_ do anything, Sherlock," his brother bits back, an eyebrow shooting up at the gall of the young man.

"But you'll do it anyway," the sleuth drawls arrogantly.

"You presume too much. If I agree, you're going to do something stupid, aren't you?"

"I'm a dying man anyway. I'm allowed to do things which might be unwise," the younger Holmes declares stubbornly.

"You wouldn't be dying if you weren't an idiot to begin with," Mycroft reprimands. Really, what has he ever done to deserve being burdened with caring for his brother?

"Will you get me John or are you trying to make me beg?" Sherlock counters. It's horribly unsightly, but he's afraid that he very well might if his brother insists being unreasonable about it.

"I'll arrange it," the elder concedes with a put-upon sigh. Mycroft always, always caved in where Sherlock was concerned. It was his curse. And look how the ungrateful brat repaid him. Mess after mess.

When the black car accosts him, John gets in without thinking. He is slightly taken aback finding the older Holmes inside.

"I understand that my brother let you down, doctor Watson. Better than most," Mycroft says, "but Sherlock asks for a meeting, and I hope you'll be amenable."

John gives him a wan smile. "When have I not heeded Sherlock's summons, Mycroft? You don't need to be so...On second thought, you're probably just being you."

"And yet you deal easily with us. That's quite the feat, doctor," the other offers. He always respected John, and can offer at least that before sending him in to confront his mad younger brother.

"Thank you, I guess." John's smile is more normal this time.

They arrive shortly, and it's clearly some sort of military base, rather than a prison. John breathes heavily once in sheer relief. "That's good," he remarks. Mycroft nods tightly before motioning for the doctor to follow the nameless minion waiting for them.

He's brought to a room sparsely furnished, actually very much like the visiting room of a prison, but without any glass separating him from Sherlock. The detective is already there, waiting for him standing and practically radiating nervous energy.

"So you've been recruited," John remarks.

"Yes, I'm allowed to _serve England_," Sherlock recites, his voice mocking, "instead of rotting somewhere. But it fits me better, don't you think?"

"Of course. I can't imagine how you'd manage in prison...No, actually I can, and I'm really grateful that it's never happening," the doctor replies.

He really is. Sherlock in jail would be horrible. Not just because whatever Sherlock has done, he's done it for him.(There's a sentence he's read somewhere floating in his head since then; let be guiltless in thy sight, who for thy sake is guilty.) Not just because it's just not right that he be punished for getting rid of such an awful individual (hell, a lot of people out there are thankful for that...and some were surely in line for the job). Because Sherlock would die being caged, and John is honestly, deeply grateful for anything that delays that.

"That feeling is shared, but don't let Mycroft know," the detective admits.

John laughs. Oh, how Sherlock loves that.

"Don't worry. I won't. But we're probably being filmed so he'll know either way," the doctor points out.

"No we aren't. Mycroft suspects at least what I want to tell you, he won't let them," Sherlock replies.

"Do I have to be scared?" John queries, because for Mycroft to respect his brother's privacy it's simply unheard of. What can prompt that?

"Not scared, no. If you're freaked out I won't hold it against you, though," Sherlock answers. As if that's supposed to be comforting. Then, for the first time in his life in front of someone who's not part of his family, Sherlock opens his chest and takes his heart out.

"What's that?" John blurts out, now happy for the permission to freak out. He'll need it, because this surpasses even Sherlock's usual weirdness.

"My heart, John. I'm not entirely human," his friend reveals calmly.

"Well, put it back!" the doctor urges, alarmed. That can't be good.

"Don't worry, John. It doesn't hurt me to have it here. Actually, it would be rather better for me to keep it outside my chest."

"I find it hard to believe," John mutters. This has turned surreal enough, but being better without his heart in its proper place? Seriously?

"It does not affect my survival if my heart is separated from me, no matter the distance between us. At least unless it doesn't get destroyed," Sherlock explains. "In truth, removed from me my heart can be safer than it could ever possibly be in my own chest. I'm about to be working in earnest, John. I simply cannot afford to be swayed by this...thing. I cannot get_ emotional_. Surely you understand."

John sighs once. "Perhaps. I can see your point. Still trying to wrap my mind around the whole 'I can pull out my heart from my chest' bit, honestly. But what you say makes sense, once I accept the evidence. I'm assuming I've not been drugged because this is too weird even for a delusion. I wouldn't dream this up and you have no reason to plant the idea inside my mind. Conceding this is true...why did you tell me now?"

"Because I'd like you to keep it, John." There. It's out. Sherlock said it. The whole point of this meeting.

"Not in the fridge, I hope." There's humor in John's voice, but with an undercurrent of strain. He's not comfortable with the request.

Sherlock giggles nonetheless. "It's not a requirement, no. You can squirrel it away wherever you wish."

"Not that I'm not flattered, Sherlock. But why me? Why not hid this away...in a strongbox somewhere?"

"Well, since it's yours, it made sense," the detective replies, with a nonchalant shrug.

"Wait,_ what_?" It's almost a yelp. John is definitely alarmed now.

"Right, I need to explain," Sherlock huffs. He hoped they could avoid that. "This is actually my second heart. I had already hidden away my own a long time before meeting you, but I have grown another one. I shouldn't have been able to do so, but I did. And the only variable that can have prompted that is you, John. So yes, this heart is yours, and since I don't want anything to do with it anymore it seemed right to let you have it."

"That can't be right, Sherlock."

"I assure you it is, John. I should know, don't you think?" the sleuth replies bitterly. John shouldn't doubt him. If something is not right, this is.

"You can't drop things like these on a bloke, Sherlock." Now there's a definite edge of panic in the doctor's voice. "I mean, it's weird enough what you can do." Weird is better than freakish, at least. Slightly. "But you're telling me I've made you literally_ grow a heart_...It's too much. You can't push your heart on me. Is that some weird way of your kind to declare your feelings? Because _timing_, Sherlock."

The sleuth is very happy to have his heart out, beating quietly between them, because it would definitely crack otherwise. Instead it just carries on pulsing gently. John can't take his eyes away from it, but he doesn't look at it as something that should be promptly dissected. At least.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I just told you that I have no room for feelings anymore," Sherlock points out. If mummy kept dad's heart, that was just convenience. It's not like Sherlock was hoping for anything even vaguely resembling it. John is married, for God's sake. The detective knows that better than anyone else. Why would a common people's saying make him misconstrue (_read trough_) everything?

"And anyway, I don't want it anymore," he insists petulantly. "So either you keep it or I'll just leave it here."

"Even you can't be so mad, Sherlock," John counters. He prays what he just said it's true. He's deeply reluctant to take it. He's always done what Sherlock asked him to, no matter how pointless or crazy. But this feels too terribly intimate for him to automatically agree.

"Don't challenge me," the sleuth replies sharply. It would send Mycroft right into a fit, but if John is so disgusted by his heart, what does it matter to Sherlock what is to become of him? Let it be found, binned, dissected. He doesn't care. He's only waiting to die as it is.

"_If_ I take it...there is nothing I have to do with it. Or to it. Or something. I just have to keep it somewhere safe," the doctor asks. If he has to accept the responsibility he needs to be sure of what it entails. If he kills Sherlock because his friend thought it was obvious that the organ had to be ...watered, or something (yes, it's not a plant, but...what it is? How does it work?) he won't be able to live with himself. He won't have to, because Mycroft will murder him in turn, but that's beside the point.

"Of course John," Sherlock scoffs, the git (even if he's secretly relieved). "It'll go on by itself. Who knows, maybe I'll grow another one and you'll be relieved of duty." He plants the suggestion. Otherwise John will be sad when it stops. Maybe he won't even notice, he can easily hide it and forget about it, but it's better to account for any outcome.

"Right. And things are supposed to always go your way, so I'll just have to cave in as usual. But I'm giving it back the moment you're back home," John negotiates.

"Naturally," the sleuth agrees. He won't be back, so that's a moot point. It works, though.

John pockets his heart, touching it like it's something infinitely delicate and precious. Not as something disgusting, unnatural, like everyone else outside family surely would. "It doesn't hurt when I touch it, does it?" he asks, worried, looking Sherlock over for signs of distress.

"No. You're gentle, and warm. It's...good," Sherlock confesses, wondering in the same breath if he has revealed too much.

But John only counters, "Oh, thank God," utterly relieved.

Someone knocks at the door. They're getting impatient.

"Then...Good luck, I guess. I hope you'll like the work." It's terribly awkward, but what is he supposed to say? John's pretty sure that there is no etiquette to say goodbye to your best friend who'll be off working with MI-something because he's killed someone for you.

"One can only hope. And, John...thank you for everything." There are many more things that Sherlock wishes to say, but there's no time, he's acting out of character as it is, and he can't tip John off about his survival expectations.

"You're welcome. Though, really, I should be doing the thanking. Just remember that we'll be waiting for you, Sherlock." With that and a last smile John leaves. Sherlock wants to call him back, but he can't. He wants to keep John by his side forever, but he's given that right up. At least he's gotten his wish, and part of him (the useless, weak one) is still (will be) near John to his last day.

The following couple of days John is a bit creepy, maybe, but he spends hours when he can't sleep locking himself together with the heart and staring at it. Trying to make sense of it all. He's half tempted to bring it along at all times, because there's Mary at home, who can't be trusted with such a secret – not with her history. But such a choice would just heighten the chance of accidental damage. In the end, he hides it in a closet together with a few mementos of a younger Harry he can't bring himself to throw away. Mary won't go snooping there. Hopefully.

Fate is gentle with Sherlock Holmes. Unexpectedly, he's allowed to see John once again before being sent off to die. Right on the airport's tarmac.

"I bullied Mycroft into letting me be here," the doctor says. They laugh, because Mycroft is not bullied into anything, but it's funny to pretend he could be. "I had to apologize about last time," he continues. "I reacted badly at first, but I'm an idiot, as we well know. You've been very kind, really. At least this time I have the proof that you're alive, if not exactly that you're well."

It's like a fairytale. 'Look at the (insert object) and if it loses its shine (or equivalent condition) you'll know I'm dead'. It happened in a lot of fairytales John had loved as a child. (All the 'dead' people resurrected in the end there too.)

"Unless I grow yet another heart," Sherlock points out. It would be fitting. He faked his death before and now, when he'll really be dead, he wants John to disregard the evidence in his hands and believe that he's still off somewhere working to pay his debt to England. John would be sad otherwise, and that can't be allowed to happen.

"Oh yes. Of course," John agrees promptly.

"To the very best of times, John" the detective utters softly. Thank God his heart is already out, or he'd choke on it, and then John would wonder. With a last handshake, he leaves. No heart, he can do this. Mycroft was right, all these years ago.

Later, John will wonder if thinking about fairytales might have resurrected Moriarty (of course not, it's nonsensical, but so is his life lately). The consultant criminal's revival is bad, obviously, but kind of good, too. Sherlock is not going anymore where John can't follow, after all. (Terribly selfish of John, yes, but for a second he feels like he could thank Jim when they meet again.)

The game is back on. And the same players are all on the board. Sherlock suspects Mycroft for a moment ('your loss would break my heart', as exaggerated as it is, might have prompted his brother to air old footage). But that's wrong. The two geniuses _did_ fake suicide at each other (and doesn't this look like a comedy?).

John keeps Sherlock's heart through the mess, as per the sleuth's request. Jim has always aimed for it (was he talking metaphorically or not?) and his friend is the only one the detective trusts to keep it safe. John is not about to disappoint. It's always been his self-appointed mission to keep Sherlock unscathed from the danger they're both addicted to. All of him, possibly. Certainly the vital parts.

On the plus side, this round ends without secrets. Sherlock and John win over Jim and his _beloved sniper_, even if it's impossible to catch them. Then again, Jim's sniper is Mary, the baby girl is Jim's too, and hopefully soon they'll be too busy to wreak major havoc. For a while at least.

It wreaks John, obviously. But it brings him home to 221B too, and Sherlock is shamefully, deeply happy for it. And guilty too, because John is sad, but for once it's not the sleuth's fault. He'll make his friend happy again. He knows John. He knows what he likes. Mary will be forgotten, someday.

Sherlock gets his heart back, but since he has John back too, it's not a hardship. Now, he tells John if he sometimes takes it out for cases (it's really more effective...but he's not about to permanently go without it again). It usually ends up stored in some corner of the kitchen, where nobody with access to their flat will find it odd. (Even the fridge on occasion, as a joke.) John still stares at it sometimes, with an amazed, almost reverent look on his face. Sherlock doesn't call him out on it (naturally he noticed).

Gradually, Sherlock heals John once again. They're always the best (the only) treatment for one another. Until they're back from a case (barely a four, Sherlock didn't even take his heart out for this one, no need), high on adrenaline, and John says, "Christ, Sherlock, you were..." Instead of ending with amazing, or fantastic, or great, this time John kisses him, soft and quick and absolutely breathtaking. The things dad said about one's True Love kiss were all true. The world_ shifts_, Sherlock is sure. If he shuts down, he's only trying to wrap his mind around it.

But only five seconds later, John is talking again, so he has to pay attention. "Christ, Sherlock, I have not traumatized you, have I? I didn't force myself on you, did I?" John's voice sounds deeply terrified. Sherlock does the only logical thing. He dives in for another kiss. That should put such ridiculous fears to rest.

After that, though, he seeks answers. It's his nature. "This was...the adrenaline, right?" he queries shakily. It has to be. John has always been very consistently not interested in him after all. Even so, he's so very thankful that he's decided to take this case. Only the once, a fluke not to be repeated, but he has been allowed to experience this. He'll keep these instants in his mind palace for as long as he's alive. Come back to them anytime life looks bleak.

John always, always surprises him. He answers, "On your hand, perhaps. On mine, it was more of a 'Christ, I'm in love with this man' moment of abrupt clarity. But feel free to delete that if you think it's better. Nothing will change, I promise you."

His brave captain, who has just realized and acts accordingly. Sherlock realized months ago (he might be an idiot in comparison with Mycroft, but there are limits to that) and all he has done was misleading John, too afraid to lose what he already had.

"I'd very much like not to delete it, if it's all the same for you," he replies. "And for things to evolve somehow. I have a confession to make, John. Even if I denied it at the time...when I gave you my heart, your metaphorical reading of that act was perfectly legitimate."

The doctor blushes. "Oh God. Again, so sorry about flipping back then. I'm such an idiot. And I 'm sorry about being so ordinary, too. Because I would really, really love to literally give you my heart too, but I'll have to content myself with saying how very much I love you."

"You're not ordinary, John. You're the only one for me." And Sherlock kisses John again, just because he finally can.

_ P.S. The quote in John's mind (let be guiltless in thy sight, who for thy sake is guilty) is missing a 'her' that didn't fit and comes from Seneca's Medea. Let's just say one of his old dates forced him to watch it, ok? In Latin it sounds even better (and gender-neutral), Tibi innocens sit quisquis est pro te nocens._


End file.
